Beetles have decided this greenery is to their taste. The leaves of my rose bushes, ivies and lilacs all bear nibble holes. My prize rhododendron’s moth-eaten leaf looks like a collander.

Yankees President Randy Levine and wife Mindy, chef Lidia Bastianich, businessman David Cornstein, everyone who has outdoor space between here and Baltimore uses Andy from Accent on Flowers. He’s probably richer than any of his clients. Andy sprayed everything. There’s so much stuff around that nobody wants to go outside. Nothing like having a terrace you can only enjoy in bitter winter.

After yet another deluge came yet another infestation. Forget the Bible. The Exodus didn’t have as much action. Ants. I had ants. Teeny, teeny-tiny brown things. So small they look like dirt specks. My Jazzy and Juicy, thinking they’d left a crumb from their treat on the floor, started to lick one up. It was an ant! I killed the thing but then a whole group of relatives came to his/her funeral. Its friends were moving across my desk, my computer, my papers.

Specialists told me the problem was that our excessive rain’s destroyed their colonies so the ants are homeless.

Like I was interested in their mortgage and subprime problems. I explained I don’t care where they live as long as it isn’t my house.

This was Monday. We scrubbed the ant-logged area with bleach, Clorox, ammonia and vinegar because the exterminator, who is obviously even richer than Andy, couldn’t come over until Friday. I now discovered ants thrive on Clorox, ammonia, bleach and vinegar. Top Job to them is like caviar.

I suddenly learned a lot about these creatures. Like, the only spot on Earth that they are not is — ready? — Antarctica. Like, they are very industrious. They build and make houses. Fine. But if they’re going to build and fix MY house they’re going to share the maintenance.

I was knee-deep in what was becoming Antwerp West and thinking how ridiculous it is when I tell friends I won’t visit them in the country because I hate insects, when Barbara Walters called. “Can’t talk to you now. I’ve got ants in my plants. They’re all over my office,” I said.

“Yeah? Well, I’ve got a dead pigeon in my bathroom,” she said.

“You got a what?”

“A dead pigeon in my bathroom.”

“How did he get there?”

“Do I know? I didn’t invite him.”

“Did he come through the window?”

“I’ve been in the Hamptons all week so my apartment was completely shut. No windows open. I only know I came home the other night and a dead pigeon’s in my bathroom. All smashed on the floor.”

“Well, what do you think happened?”

“Who knows. He must’ve come down the chimney. I think the flue wasn’t closed. I mean, what do I know? I don’t know how a pigeon thinks. The superintendent came up and we could only imagine the bird figured my bathroom, which is all mirrored, was a window, therefore he probably flew smack full force into the wall and beat himself to death. It’s an awful mess. My whole apartment smells of Lysol.”

“Better than my place. We smell of ammonia, Clorox, vinegar and bleach.”

Came a call from another friend on Park Avenue. “I’m going mad,” she said. “My neighbors are in the process of renovation. You know, these buildings only let you renovate in the summertime when, theoretically, most of the other tenants are away. Well, two apartments are renovating. One right over me. Ripping up floors, tearing out pipes. And guess what? These are old buildings. The minute you start disturbing whatever’s living comfortably inside these walls, out they come. Can you believe I have mice?!”

I told her not to worry. They’re a neutral color. They won’t clash with the drapes.

At this point I had anti-beetle powder on my hair, my nails were eaten from bleach and Clorox and I needed major improvement. Although the way I looked might’ve helped my situation. I mean, I could have frightened my lousy ants to death. Anyway, I called Thomas Morrissey beauty salon on Madison Avenue. No answer. I tried again. No answer. How could there be no answer midday? I tried again. Their phones weren’t working.